I just finished up an entire short story that when converted to courier new is exactly six pages. It’s entitled The Argent’s Finest and can be found here for now. I’m gonna add a real page for it tomorrow, methinks, but the fact is that Scribd’s features make it much easier to upload things. I don’t know if it’s more annoying to read something in narrow-Wordpress-vision here or Flash (soon to be HTML5) embedded-o-vision of a PDF over there. My general lasiness has me very tempted to stop posting things here and just divert everyone that way. I’ll have to see if signup is required for comments and things like that.

For now, enjoy the story. I’ll do the rest of the work tomorrow when it’s not so freaking hot.

No, not the Muse song. The new story I’m working on! With class dialing down and with a semester that I’ve spent mostly writing-free behind me to recharge my resentment batteries, not to mention another story of mine getting published to boost morale, I’m trying this whole “writing” thing again. It’s been too long! Please share and enjoy this new taste of my (everyone’s?) favorite fast casual restaurant:

Clarissa watched Clarence trot back into the office with a smirk on his face as she stood in back getting a drink. She’d heard the proceedings and knew that Clarence had won, the Cleaners had lost. With their defeat, Clarissa felt the mantle land on her shoulders, the feeling that most people only feel in a ninth inning, a fourth quarter, or when everyone else has been shot in Counter-Strike.

“It’s all up to me,” Clarissa mumbled.

“Get back to work!” Clarence called out from the office.

Clarissa carefully set her cup of Diet Pepsi down and shuffled back up. It truly was up to her. The Cleaners would behave now for fear of their jobs. The teenagers that worked nights wouldn’t care, the kitchen crew wouldn’t notice, Denise didn’t question the authority of males, and Twinkie, well, Twinkie was obsessed with ornithology this week. That might sound impressive, but it was only an offshoot of his obsession with dinosaurs last week. Clarissa would have to be the hero. There was just one problem.

“I know you don’t like me,” Clarence had said when he called Clarissa into the office the day after his promotion. “You think I’m cruel. You think I’m downright evil.”

He’d started pacing across the office with his hands clasped behind his back at this point, and Clarissa dropped her face into her hand.

After some schedule wonkiness in the due dates of our poems, we’re back to an every Wednesday scenario. And yes, typically I do end up writing these the morning of that Wednesday. This week’s contribution to the vast expanses of unknown and irrelevant art is What’s Cool, a reply to the poem of the same name by Mark Leidner. I don’t know if it exists in any legally reproducible way online, but I’ll find out. In short, his poem discusses what’s cool, coming to a conclusion of sorts that only those that are totally fluid in their entire belief structure are “cool.” That’s the way I read it, at least. My piece provides my own cynical, hypocritical, and paradoxical view, and you’re free to enjoy it here. And, of course, the rest of my poetry can be found via the link up above, tucked away into that banner image which I really need to replace.

Take one part energy drink, one part Lovecraft, one part eclectic collection of music, one part Monster a-Go-Go, one part deadline. Combine; shake well. You end up with something that technically fulfills the requirements for my ‘poetry with a visual element’ assignment. It’s called In the Not-Too-Distant Future, Somewhere in Time and Space. You’re welcome to take a look. I really hope the wall of text in it still makes sense when I’m back on a normal sleep schedule.

I’ve worried for a while now that I’m simply not crazy enough to be a good artist. Hemingway killed himself, Dickenson was a recluse, even Jerry Holkins is on antidepressants. I’m in a happy relationship and not suicidal, so I’ve worried that I don’t have what it takes to put out some art. Today, though, I feel better. I may not be suicidal, but I am crazy, for I have written a poem from the point of view of a Nigerian prince falling in love. And I honestly think it has potential.

It’s called Happenings in a Bar in Lagos, and you can click the title to read it on the Scribd. I don’t think it’s finished yet, but I feel like with the right word choice and audible considerations it really could be beautiful. We’ll see how much effort I can make myself put into it. In the meantime, enjoy it for what it is.

As I lamented a little bit ago, I’ve really got to stop writing poetry about my girlfriend. At least this one isn’t sad or lovey, it’s more of a ‘let’s go do cool stuff’ poem. It’s named The Happiest Days of Our Lives after the Pink Floyd song best known as the bit before Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2.

Much of the material came from a ‘quiz’ in which we’d get a line of poetry from Actual Air by David Berman such as what’s more radical, the snow or the tires,/ and what does the Bible say about metal fatigue/and why do mothers carry big scratched-up sunglasses/ in their purses? followed by something like “Ask three more questions that go along with these:” Truth be told, I think I came up with a bunch of good lines this way, and some of them are reflected in the poem.

The other contribution is another poem, one that when I wrote it, I was terrified of showing anyone. However, Courtney likes it, and my professor (who I turned it in to because he doesn’t know me) liked it, and I’m such a compliment whore that I may submit it to the Edgewood Review. So what the hell, I’ll throw it up here. It’s tentatively titled Home and anyone that knows me IRL and doesn’t want uncomfortably personal thoughts revealed probably shouldn’t read it. Especially if you are or live with my dad. Some people need Not-Safe-For-Work warnings, I need Non-Fiction ones.